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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27189910">Hiatus Thots</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx'>supersoakerx</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Girls (TV), Logan Lucky (2017), Marriage Story (2019), Paterson (2016), Sleepover - SNL Sketch (2020), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Science Room - SNL Sketch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anthology, Blood, Blood and Injury, Daddy Kink, F/M, Imprisonment, Mommy Kink, Morning Cuddles, Semi-public masturbation, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, Where do I begin, Yikes, cursing, detailed tags in chapter summaries, doggy, each chapter is a different thing, implied sex slavery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:00:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27189910</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I am on a break while I finish my degree (returning late-November!) but my dumb brain can't help itself so here are some little snippets of stories of varying length and I wish you well, dears x</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adam Sackler/Reader, Ben Solo/You, Captain Hook/Reader, Charlie Barber/You, Clyde Logan x You, Clyde Logan/Reader, Clyde Logan/You, Paterson x You, Paterson/You, Peter Pennyham, Peter Pennyham/You, Professor Zachary Adams/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>103</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hiatus Thot #1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Tags: Paterson, Clyde Logan, Mommy Kink, Threesome (F/M/M)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You kneel on the bed, legs spread. Between them, Pat’s thumb and Clyde’s fingers work your stiffening clit and your slick pussy.</p><p>Their mouths are busy lapping and licking and sucking your breasts, eagerly—with purpose and passion.</p><p>Paterson hums, “Mmmommy,” his lids fluttering as you card your fingers through his hair.</p><p>Clyde groans, “mmhh—Momma,” as your thumb grazes one of his nipples. His swollen cock leaks cum in cloudy pearls, his eyes pleading and needy.</p><p>You grip their hot, thick erections and they jolt and groan and sigh, and it’s not long before you work the both of them up into a state—starting to sweat and huff, pushing up into your hands.</p><p>And when you finally let go, a rushing blissful warmth flooding your veins, the two boys explode in your palms, their stiff, pulsing cocks erupting warm, sticky, oozing cum all over your fists and fingers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Hiatus Thot #4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tags: underage, Sleepover!Dad from the Sleepover SNL skit [2020] whom after research I have named Peter Pennyham, and Game of Thrones plaigiarism/reference</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You cannot wait for these exams to be over. Hunched over the dining table, your back, shoulders, neck, and writing hand all feel tight and cramped up, and you’ve got a headache coming on.</p><p>Your next exam is at 9am tomorrow morning, and you’d gone to your friend Aidy’s house to cram for it with her. Looking around you now, the house seems next to deserted, just a few lights on here and there, and dull muffled voices emanating from the TV in the living room. The dining table is covered with papers and open textbooks and past exams and random pens. It’s a mess.</p><p>You didn’t even realise that Aidy had gone to bed. Glancing at the clock, you see it’s after 11.</p><p>Tiredness washes over you like a wave. Suddenly your eyes feel sore, your uniform feels scratchy on your skin. You’d been studying and writing practice answers all afternoon, ever since Mr Pennyham picked you and Aidy up from school. You both had your licences—heck, you were about to turn eighteen in a few weeks—but he’d just wanted to do something nice for you girls. You were both so stressed and anxious to be done with this last ever high school exam block.</p><p>So, Aidy’s Dad had taken you for ice cream. It was creamy and rich, a yummy treat from a very thoughtful parent, a very kind man, who’d told you horrendously unfunny jokes that had you in stitches.</p><p>That felt like so long ago now.</p><p>You flex your fingers, trying to get circulation through your hands again. It had gotten a little colder in the house as night set in, and you were thankful for the cozy pair of Aidy’s socks Mr Pennyham had leant you from the clean clothes basket.</p><p>You lean your elbows on the table, and press the heels of your palms to your eyes. You sigh deeply, trying to re-gain some focus, and rub your brow.</p><p>A very quiet knock to your left grabs your attention, and you turn to see Mr Pennyham standing in the archway to the dining room, gazing at you.</p><p>He smiles ruefully and murmurs in a quiet voice, “Dad alert, sweetheart.”</p><p>“Hi, Mr Pennyham.” You do your best to smile back at him, at the words he always uses to try to casually announce his presence. He was always so sweet to you, and Meghan and Stephanie too, all of Aidy’s friends, really… but you got the feeling he liked talking to you the best. Adults always seemed to like talking to you: they’d always said you were mature for your age, ever since you were a little girl.</p><p>“You look tired, kiddo,” says Mr Pennyham, leaning against the archway trim. He’s got this look of concern on his face, and he folds his arms. “You’re working too hard,” he says, “Aidy went to bed over an hour ago.”</p><p>You sigh, glancing at your three-quarters-finished practice answer—and how your writing had gotten messier and messier as the paragraph went on. “Yeah,” you say, looking back at him, “I’m probably pushing it but… I just… ” you trail off with another sigh, words no longer forthcoming.</p><p>Mr Pennyham frowns. He crosses the room with slow steps, stopping at the edge of the dining table and looking over all the work you’ve done. He sighs. “I know you’ve got high standards, sweetheart, but this,” he gestures to all your papers, “your brain needs sleep too, not just study.”</p><p>You look up at him, a hopeless, desperate kind of exhaustion lacing your features.</p><p>Mr Pennyham places a large, warm, comforting hand on your shoulder. He says, “if I make you a nice hot chocolate, do you promise to go to bed after you finish that one?” He points at your unfinished paragraph. “I made up the spare bed for you.”</p><p>You manage a smile. That sounded lovely. “Yeah, ok,” you reply.</p><p>“It’s a deal?” he quizzes you.</p><p>“Deal,” you say with a small laugh.</p><p>He squeezes your shoulder, says, “good girl,” and makes for the kitchen.</p><p>Soon, when you hear Mr Pennyham’s footsteps signalling his return to the dining room, you’d just written the last word.</p><p>You throw your pen down, your brain absolutely totalled for the night, and stretch your arms up high above your head.</p><p>Mr Pennyham comes to a stop beside your chair. “Hey,” he beams, “attagirl! That looks like you’re all done?” He makes a small space and sets a steaming mug of chocolately goodness down on the table, then places his hands on his hips, glancing over your handwritten efforts with awe and wonder.</p><p>“Mmhm,” you hum, twisting in your chair, trying to stretch your back out.</p><p>You don’t catch the way Mr Pennyham eyes the slivers of skin you expose with your reaching and stretching and twisting, or the way, when you lean forward on the table to grab and sip your hot drink, he can see down your school shirt.</p><p>He’s broken from his reverie, stalled from appreciating your body when you make a deep, contented sigh of, “mmmhh,” – having taken the first delicious sip of soothing hot chocolate.</p><p>“Good?” he says, willing his inner-most thoughts to hush, trying to picture anything but all the dark, depraved ways he knows he could relieve your stress—and help you get to sleep.</p><p>“So good, Mr Pennyham,” you say—and Lord, he wishes you hadn’t answered him like <em>that</em>. “Thank you,” you smile at him, and take another sip.</p><p>In your eyes—beyond the staggering beauty that damn near brought him to his knees the first time he met you—he sees a weariness beyond your years. One born from dedication, from a drive and struggle to do better, to be better, to always challenge your own limits and that which any others may have set for you. A determination so rare in one so young.</p><p>“Come here,” he says boldly, reaching for you with an outstretched palm.</p><p>A beat passes, as you look from his hand to his face.</p><p>He gives you a small nod. “Come here, kiddo,” he says again.</p><p>You take his hand and stand from your chair, your knees cracking from lack of use.</p><p>Now, you’re standing close, too close, he can smell your faded sweat and perfume and deodorant and he prays to every god he knows that Aidy doesn’t pick this moment to come downstairs for a midnight snack.</p><p>Mr Pennyham cups your cheek, and quietly murmurs your name, “if you were my daughter… my God,” he looks over your face, before gazing into your eyes, “I’d be so, incredibly proud of you…”</p><p>Your breath hitches. He’s so close. His top button is undone. He smells so good. His eyes are so brown. His lips are so—</p><p>“… But I’m glad you’re not.” He grazes your cheekbone with his thumb.</p><p>Time stops. “Mr Pennyham,” you murmur quietly, breathily.</p><p>“Call me Peter,” he says, and gently presses his lush, pink, petal-soft lips to yours.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hiatus Thot #3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tags: Ben Solo, morning cuddles, Slumber Party AU</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This morning is cooler – colder – than it had been all week. The sky is ashen: a light, soft grey painted across the looming expanse that says, ‘stop now. Rest now. It’s the weekend, and you don’t got nowhere to be.’</p><p>Your eyes, still heavy from sleep, drift closed again.</p><p>Ben’s arm winds around you. He snuggles in closer to you, pressing his front to your back, seating your backside against his crotch, tangling his long legs with yours.</p><p>He hums into the back of your head, voice thick with sleep, “<em>mmwarmh</em>,” and nuzzles into your hair as he finds a comfy spot on your pillow. He sighs, deep and content, when he finds it.</p><p>You whisper, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth and breadth of Ben’s body as awareness seeps back into your mind and limbs unbidden, “are you awake?”</p><p>“Nnuh,” Ben grunts, groggy and dazed with semi-consciousness. He tightens his grip on you, pressing against you and pulling you closer simultaneously. He breathes deep, the scent of your hair, tells you to, “sleep,” and then relaxes his hold, humming another comfortable sigh.</p><p>A few small, quiet moments pass. You listen to the gentle rhythm of Ben’s breathing. You slip your hand under his where it rests against your belly, and he entwines your fingers in his own.</p><p>“Ben?” you breathe, soft and quiet.</p><p>“Mh.”</p><p>You say, “do you wanna go bowling today?”</p><p>A beat passes, before the stretching silence is broken by Ben’s half-asleep morning chuckle. It’s one of the huskiest, sexiest sounds you’ve ever heard: it rumbles through his chest, you feel it in your back.</p><p>Ben presses closer to you again. He nuzzles the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear and drowsily murmurs, “sleep now, plans later, babe,” before pressing a small peck to your lobe.</p><p>He pulls the blankets all the way up over your bodies, drops back down onto your pillow. and snuggles in close and warm again.</p><p>The second Solo makes a pretty convincing argument.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hiatus Thot #6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tags: Professors Adams and Barber from the Two's Company AU I am working on, smooches; Reader is chubby, wears glasses. Shit sorry Daddy kink (cue *surprised Pikachu face*)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s the worst kept secret. Everyone knows the Humanities and Social Sciences building is the make out block, or the quick fuck block, depending on your feelings about anything from PDA to semi-public sex to straight up exhibitionism.</p><p>The building, nicknamed ‘Ssh Block’, is isolated at the far end of the campus. Behind it, the lake and deer reserve, and in front of it, a large open courtyard with a fountain and one of the university’s famously too-small parking spaces, known to students as ‘Carpark Coitus’.</p><p>On any given day, very few people are seen here—and those that are, are up to no good.</p><p>In the Antiquities Museum, a small but invaluable collection of ancient artefacts on the 5th floor, there are a few quiet, secluded corners, known well by those who know what they’re looking for.</p><p>Today, in one of them, we find you and two of your professors.</p><p>Their bodies are pressed in close to yours, all hot breath and roaming hands.</p><p>Professor Barber licks into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth.</p><p>Professor Adams runs his large, warm, practised palms down your plush body slowly. He gathers your pretty floral skirt in his hands and bunches it up, kissing your neck while he exposes your legs to the chill air of the deserted Museum.</p><p>Barber yanks your sweater up over your chest, and, growling in frustration, pulls roughly at the button-up shirt he finds there. Buttons fly off, exposing the bra that struggles to restrain your ample bosom.</p><p>“Have a care, Charles,” says Adams, his breath fanning over your skin between kisses. “Don’t be so hasty with the girl.”</p><p>Barber pulls from your lips and scoffs. “What, Zac, trouble keeping up?”</p><p>Adams’ fingertips graze your throat and slide up to your chin. He turns your head to face him, and kisses you with soft, gentle caresses of his lips that soon turn deep and hungry.</p><p>Barber says, “moving too fast for you, old man?” as he works at his belt and fly.</p><p>You place a hand on Professor Barber’s stomach, then trail down, slipping inside his trunks to palm his large, thick erection in your hot hand.</p><p>Professor Adams swirls his tongue around yours, and you moan. He’s devoted to your mouth, kissing you so intimately and insistently your glasses start to fog up with all the hot air purling around you.</p><p>The sight of it, and your hand on him, does something to Professor Barber. He lunges for the exposed side of your neck, pressing hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses to your skin as he cups and massages your breasts through your bra, drawing your nipples into stiff buds.</p><p>Adams breaks the kiss. “Oh,” he murmurs your name, “be a dear and help Daddy out, would you, cookie?” He grinds his crotch against your ass cheeks. “Be a sweet little thing for me.”</p><p>“Nnhh,” Barber grunts, kissing his way up to your ear, “forget about him, doll. You just keep stroking my cock like that,” he sucks your earlobe, whispers to you, “keep going like that, you’ll make Daddy fucking cum.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Hiatus Thot #7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So this is like s1 ep1 of G*rls done better—but elsewise I don’t know what this is. It’s not sub!Sackler, but it’s not top!Sackler, and same for Reader. Whoops.</p>
<p>Warnings: cussing and fucking you know how I do Sackler</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You think you can come in here, and talk all that noise?”</p>
<p>After a struggle he’d managed to pin you down on his velvet, mustard yellow couch. It smells like the last time you’d fucked here, and his clothed erection presses into your ass.</p>
<p>“Oh, Sackler,” you scoff with condescension, “big boy, I fucking know I can.”</p>
<p>He growls and his jean-clad hips roll against your backside. He lays on your body, crushing you beneath his weight, brushes your hair back from your ear and says, “you think I wanna listen to you fuckin’ talk <em>fuhhcking</em> shit all day?” He rocks his pelvis against your ass, setting a rhythm. “Think I’ll drop everything ‘cause you get my, fucking, dick hard?”</p>
<p>“’s exactly what I think and so do you, Sackler.” You do what you can to push your ass up into him and grind your cheeks against his crotch.</p>
<p>“Ffuckin’, minx,” he gets up off you and makes quick work of his fly. “Talkin’ to me like I’m a fuckin’ schmuck in a big fuckin’ board meeting.” He grabs your hips and pulls you up onto all fours.</p>
<p>You’re not an executive, and you don’t have meetings in boardrooms. But you go with it, into it and him and how riled up Sackler can get himself sometimes. “You <em>are</em> a fuckin’ schmuck, Sackler,” you say. “Fucking, jabroni.”</p>
<p>“In front of everyone,” he huffs, tossing your skirt up over your hips and yanking your stockings down gracelessly. “Showin’ off, makin’ all those fucking people scared of you.”</p>
<p>“They’re not as scared as you are, Sackler.” You brace yourself with on hand on the arm rest and the other underneath your shoulder, planted firmly on the couch cushions. “You fuckin’ baby.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah,” he runs his cock head through your slippery swollen pussy lips, grazing your clit. “You modern career woman, I know what you like.”</p>
<p>“You know what I like?” You scoff. “You don’t know what I fuckin’ like. Been here for half an hour and I’m still waiting for your fucking dick. God you waste my fucking time. I don’t think you’d know what I like if you tried your fucking <em>hardest</em>!—” your breath catches as Sackler thrusts into your pussy, burying his cock in one deep long push inside, “—to fucking—fuck—figure it out.”</p>
<p>His breath comes in shudders as he builds to a brisk pace, chopping up his words. “Keep fuckin’ talking, running that mouth. I know it, I know this fucking cunt—know what it likes. Know what you fucking want, minxy.”</p>
<p>You’re cutting off moans as they rise in your throat, but the mocking laugh you try to let out turns into a loud, breathy one. “I like someone who knows how to fuck me.”</p>
<p>Sackler makes a long, drawn out, gravelly-deep groan as he bucks into your squeezing and squelching pussy.</p>
<p>“And that ain’t you, is it?” you say, “you don’t know how to fuck me. You just can’t get it done, Sackler, can you?”</p>
<p>“Fuck this fucking cunt til you can’t fucking walk,” he mutters, all dirty grumbles and breathy sighs as his hips snap against your body, rippling your flesh.</p>
<p>He’s knocking the air from your lungs, sending lightning through your core with hot, pulsing pleasure, but you can’t help goading him further. “Harder,” you demand of him, your voice clear and firm.</p>
<p>Sackler groans and pounds into you faster, with longer, fuller stabs of his cock. It’s messy. It’s noisy. He’s going <em>deep</em>. “Fuhhck,” he groans. The couch starts to squeak from the force of it.</p>
<p>“The fuck’d I say?” you sound irritated. “<em>Harder</em>, Sackler. Jesus, have you ever fucked anything besides your own fucking fist?”</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” he grunts, pulling you up against him, bowing your back in an arch and drilling up into your pussy with sloppy slaps of skin-on-skin, “so fuckin’ mean to me, minxy.”</p>
<p>“You can take it,” you punch out, as he reaches around and jerkily rubs over your clit. “You can handle it, Sackler.” Your pussy gushes and tightens on his cock. “You’re a big boy.”</p>
<p>It takes only a millisecond for your words to register in Sackler’s brain before he’s cumming, a sudden sharp snap of pleasure cracking through his core—making his cock pulse and twitch as he drains his balls into your cunt, and strangled groans rip through his chest.</p>
<p>Soon, he’s breathing hard.</p>
<p>You say, “are you fucking kidding me?”</p>
<p>“Shit,” he huffs. Little rivulets of cum seep out around his cock, oozing down his balls. Your pussy is too tight and hot around his flagging cock.</p>
<p>“Are you <em>fucking</em> kidding me, Sackler?”</p>
<p>“I don’t—I’ve never—fuck.” He gives up talking then, halts all attempts whatsoever because he’s just gotta kiss you, hold you, have you and never let you go.</p>
<p>No one’s ever done to him, the wild things you do to him. You make him fucking crazy.</p>
<p>He seeks your mouth and groans when your lips meet. “I like the way you talk to me,” he says bluntly, kissing you again. “Like the way you don’t take my shit.”</p>
<p>“I like the way you fuck me,” you blurt back between forceful kisses, “Like it when you tell me whatever the fuck you’re thinking.”</p>
<p>Sackler dips a hand down between your legs, and he hums into your mouth when his two fingers slide over your stiff, silky clit. “I wanna fuck you again, minxy,” he murmurs into your ear.</p>
<p>Another rush of slick coats your pussy walls. You don’t have to say anything, Sackler can already tell, but you say it anyway. You say it ‘cause he fucking loves hearing it.</p>
<p>“I know you do, big boy,” you husk.</p>
<p>Sackler crushes his mouth to yours.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Hiatus Thot #2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote this after a Very Bad Day™ and honestly thinking about it when I’m down still makes me smile.<br/>This is a short snippet of a situation featuring ALL off the fellas I write for right now. The main ones anyway.<br/>I’m calling it – Ohio Blue High.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re a newly arrived History teacher. You meet Clyde in the faculty staff room on your first day. A fellow History teacher, Mr Logan is a real sweetheart.</p><p>Soon the Principal, Charlie Barber arrives to welcome you and walk you to the all-staff meeting in the hall. He’s dreamy, and very well dressed, his matte black glasses the perfect accessory.</p><p>Heading out of his classroom is English teacher Paterson—softly spoken, a man of few words, Mr Hinchliffe seems like a relaxed, but quiet, kind of guy. You reckon you could grab a beer with him.</p><p>You are joined in one of the many breezeways by Mr Adams—Zac, he says—locking the door to his science lab and pocketing his glasses in his breast pocket. He smiles like a rogue.</p><p>Inside the hall there’s a boisterous noise—a tall, loud teacher in joggers, shorts and a polo shirt barrels over, the whistle on his lanyard bouncing, and introduces himself as, “Adam—or Sackler, that’s what the kids call me,” while he slings a netted bag of basketballs over his shoulder.</p><p>Mr Barber leads you to your seat, next to the Studies of Religion teacher. Mr Garupe is a slender, lean man, who introduces himself—Francisco—with a small, warm smile.</p><p>“Alright everyone, good morning, good morning,” says a voice through the speakers. You glance up and another tall, articulately dressed man in a scarf stands on the stage. “A quick announcement, before Charlie kicks things off—music practice is now in period 6, not period 2—,”</p><p>He is met with groans from the assembled crowd.</p><p>“—I know, I’m sorry, late notice, I know—and the seniors drama performance has been pushed back a week, to Week 4.”</p><p>Huffs and sighs, and a few people tut.</p><p>“Apologies!” says the CAPA Head Teacher, making a shrugging gesture. He makes a speedy, exit, hopping quickly down the stage steps, mouthing ‘sorry’ to all as he goes.</p><p>“CAPA. Creative and performing arts?” you ask.</p><p>“Yes,” replies Francisco, “that’s Mr Grisoni. We call him Toby.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Hiatus Thot #9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I ain't never written any Outlaw/Western/Pioneer AU but darn it... I think I like it.<br/>Warnings: blood, gunshot wound, historical and medical inaccuracies, historical sexism, mentions of amputation, Outlaw!Clyde, Daddy kink (sorry not sorry!!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the dead of night, you’re startled awake by loud, insistent banging on the wood door of your small cabin.</p><p>There’s no lanternlight, not even any candlelight, outside… just hulking, murky shadows you barely make out through the grimy window.</p><p>Your breathing slows and quietens, sharpening your other senses. You can’t hear Allegra—your light grey Arabian mare, on whom you travel to see patients outside o’ town—making any noises of distress. Your eyes adjust to the darkness.</p><p>Then the thudding boom strikes again—a barrage of heavy pounding that rattles the door’s metal hinges—and your heart flies up to beat in your throat. Your mouth goes dry.</p><p>“We need help! Help out here, doc!” shouts a man’s voice.</p><p>“Jimmy, <em>God</em> damn it,” hisses another, followed by more banging and pounding on your door. “Doc, open up!”</p><p>They don’t sound local, not to your ear. Two men, from outta town, making a desperate plea for medical assistance in the middle of the night?</p><p>It <em>screams</em> ‘danger’.</p><p>You scramble up out of your small, rickety cot, light a taper, and let them in.</p><p>Three men lumber inside, grunting as they carry a fourth between them. They deposit him, the larger—largest—man, onto one of your dining chairs, and the old wood creaks under his weight. A fifth stands sentinel at the door, refusing to come in, facing out into the night.</p><p>Watching for trouble.</p><p>It takes you but a moment to recognise this band of gentlemen.</p><p>The Lucky Brothers—renowned throughout West Virginia for robbin’ banks and breakin’ hearts, holdin’ up trains and blowin’ out walls—have one distinguishing feature, one distinctive characteristic that sets the four of them apart from all the other miscreants and reprobates that make it their business to terrorise frontier towns like yours…</p><p>Their leader, one Mr Clyde Logan, is missing his left hand.</p><p>So too, it’s said, are all his enemies.</p><p>You make quick work of fetching your supplies – numbing herbs, alcohol, needles and thread – and set about to staunch the bleeding from Mr Logan’s shoulder, where a bullet passed right through.</p><p>He’s pallid and clammy, his eyes out of focus.</p><p>“Won’t ya need’a fetch the doctor for this here injury, ma’am?” says one of the Brothers as you cut away Mr Logan’s blood-soaked shirt with a knife and press rags to the front and back of the weeping red wound.</p><p>You fix him—a slender gentleman with long straggly hair—with a cold, hard stare, and say, “I am the doctor.”</p><p>You hear nothing more from any of them for the rest of the night.</p><p>The Brothers are all meandering outside by the time you finish suturing the gashes in Mr Logan’s flesh.</p><p>You’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and the apron you’d forgotten you’d thrown on was stained with bloody fingerprints. Not to mention, the state of your hands…</p><p>Mr Logan’s colour had been gradually returning while you attended him. “Mighty fine lookin' thang like you oughtta be in a… <em>palace</em>,” he drawls leisurely, his eyes closed as he leans back in the creaking chair. “Not out here in the dirt ‘n’ shit ‘n’ grime. Dealin' with death and invalids and,” he stops, trying not to be overwhelmed by the coppery stench of blood and sweat on the air, “blood all dang day."</p><p>You raise your brows and scoff, “a palace?” as you dress his wound with linen bandages.</p><p>“You know... all fancy crystal and candlelight... your hair done up all nice. One o’ them li’l fans flapping to hide your pretty smile.” He gazes at you, dark and intense, jaw set.</p><p>You do your utmost to keep your touches on his skin purely professional. “I can assure you, Mr Logan, I am perfectly content lookin’ out for the fine folk ‘round these parts. And I have no need of any crystals <em>or</em> palaces.”</p><p>After a beat, recognising that you <em>know</em> him, Clyde says, “’s at so?”</p><p>Your gaze meets his—for a mere moment. You quickly glance back down at the bandages. “That’s so.”</p><p>“You know,” Clyde sighs, “bein’ out on the road ‘n’ all. Runnin’ from Johnny Law, findin’ safe shelter and a scrap of unrotted meat to eat... well, it sure does get lonely, doc.”</p><p>You'd heard the stories. His words are not to be believed. You say nothing.</p><p>“I sure ain't got nothin’ to keep me warm at night.”</p><p>The stories of how he amputates those who cross him. How he won’t kill them, but he’ll keep them alive until the shock and loss of blood does them in. You secure the bandages, and make to move away from him, your duty and service to a fellow member of humankind now complete.</p><p>“Nothin’ but...” Clyde taps his temple, indicating his mind—his imagination, “what’ I got locked away up in here.”</p><p>You take a steadying breath and hope he doesn't see it, as tendrils of fear caress the base of your spine, and curl in the pit of your gut. “Sounds like a desolate life indeed, Mr Logan. Solitary, to be sure.”</p><p>Clyde gets up quickly—too quickly to be good for his injury—and the chair legs scrape across the floor. He husks, “I know a little thang or two you could do to alleviate me of my... solitude and desolation, Miss Doctor.”</p><p>On a knife’s edge between terror and something even sicker, in this circumstance—desire—you turn away from him, gathering your supplies in a pointless pile on your dining table. “I am a physician, Mr Logan. A woman of medicine, sir, and I do not mistreat my patients in such a way as you are so forwardly implyin’.”</p><p>His large, warm body presses into you from behind, and you subtly rock forward with the momentum until you settle unwittingly against him, your fidgeting fingers stilling on the small items of your kit.</p><p>A corner of Clyde’s mouth pulls up. “Trust me, darlin’,” he huffs, “there’d be no ill-feeling on my part.”</p><p>Your temperature rises. Your heart beats faster, louder: blood pumps forcefully through your veins. “Mr Logan—,”</p><p>“Been a while since I,” he trails a finger down your arm, “had the sweet taste of cunt on my tongue—,”</p><p>Your breath catches.</p><p>“—‘n’ I could kill a man to lick some pussy t’night, doc.” Clyde fists your blood-stained apron, inching it up your legs. He hisses through the pain as he brings his other arm around your waist, and the metal hand that long since replaced his flesh one feels cool on your skin—even beneath your layers.</p><p>You swallow, gathering yourself, failing to put up a fight against your treacherous body’s physical reactions. It had been a little while for you too, after all. “Mr Logan,” you start, making a woeful, half-hearted attempted at resistance, “your shoulder, I—,”</p><p>Clyde murmurs into your ear, undeterred. “’Specially the pussy of a li’l lady who smells as good as you,” he slips his hand up under your apron and dress, “fresh and pretty as a flower on a spring mornin’, you are, Miss Doctor.”</p><p>You gasp, his thick fingers warm on your bare thigh, making your skin break out in gooseflesh. “Them’s some real nice words, Mr Logan,” is all you can think to say as you lean back into him, subtly shifting your ankles apart.</p><p>You don’t see it, but Clyde smirks as his fingertips trail closer and closer to your hot, pulsing core. He whispers, “you hidin’ some little dew drops for Daddy too, darlin’?”</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Hiatus Thot #10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: <b>underage</b>, vaginal fingering, Mr Peter Pennyham strikes again<br/>I had a bad week and I needed this. Sorry it's so short x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time he dips into your cunt… it’s like magic.</p><p>He can’t believe it.</p><p>It’s more complex than biology or chemistry, more beautiful than the finest art, more sublime than untouched nature.</p><p>He can’t explain it.</p><p>You sit next to him, pressed against his warm, sturdy body on the spacious, comfy sofa in the living room. It’s late, dark, you’re the only two awake—and <em>you</em> gasp softly, barely audible over whatever movie or ad is playing in the background. Neither of you are paying any attention.</p><p>Your legs are spread wide, one hooked over his and the other foot planted firmly on the cushions, your school skirt rucked up over your belly, underwear forgotten on the floor—socks still on, though.</p><p>“Mmister—,”</p><p>“Peter, sweetheart,” he whispers into your ear as he eases your pussy open with just one of his fingers.</p><p>He marvels at your body.</p><p>How you wrap around him. How you hold and hug and cloak him. How you sheath him, snug and warm. How you wet him, coat him, smother him, drown him.</p><p>You’re divine. Your pussy responds to him with such heat: a tight, wet heat like the tropics. Steamy and oppressive but heady and <em>intoxicating</em>.</p><p>The little sounds of pleasure you make, as he loosens your pussy with his index finger… the way you lean your head against him and sigh his name… beyond divine.</p><p>He coaxes you out, your warm, wet centre: draws your slick from your core until your pussy starts making <em>noises</em>, all over his one single digit.</p><p>“Peter,” you gasp, “y-you, you’re—,”</p><p>“Shh,” he croons, “you’re ok, sweetheart. Just let it happen.”</p><p>“Hmnh.” You cut off a whine in your throat, making sure to keep quiet as he gently works you open.</p><p>After a beat, Mr Pennyham murmurs softly. “What is it, kiddo?”</p><p>“You’re… big. Bigger… <em>hhmm</em>.” You can’t finish your sentence.</p><p>He presses a long peck to your hair. “I know,” he croons your name, “one of mine is like two of yours.”</p><p>“Mmhm,” you hum quietly.</p><p>“Let me put another one in, sweetheart,” he coos.</p><p>…and you do.</p><p>“There’s a good girl,” says Mr Pennyham.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Warnings: <b>underage</b>, vaginal fingering, Mr Peter Pennyham strikes again<br/>I had a bad week and I needed this. Sorry it's so short x</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Hiatus Thot #5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: imprisonment?, captivity?, sex slavery?, Captain Hook, no smut</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her eyes had adjusted to the failing, fading brightness as the sun had taken it’s time and set slowly behind the sea. From the small window cut high into the wall came not a shred of light, blanketing the room in a complete and abject darkness.</p><p>The closet, for that is what it truly was, was nothing more than a small wooden box, cramped with a ceiling so low that she could reach and touch it with her fingertips.</p><p>A long plank of wood bolted low into the wall, which had formerly been used only as a shelf, was now made up with furs, and a metal pail sat squat in the only spare corner.</p><p>Her bed. Her toilet.</p><p>Her world, for the foreseeable future.</p><p>Soon, she was sure, despair would overcome her; that is, if she could not find a way to prove her value.</p><p>But Hook already knows her value, she is sure of that. Else, why should she be here, kept like a wretched animal in the cold dank dark? No, this is about breaking her spirit, she realises.</p><p>Lo, hark—footsteps from beyond. She stills her breath, to heighten her hearing. In the still silence of her cupboard, her heart hammers against her chest, beats with anxious fervour in the extremities of her hands and feet. The hunger and the chill that had gnawed at her, flee.</p><p>The footfalls thud closer: strong, sure strides across the creaking boards of the ship. They stop, abruptly, outside her door. The jingling rattle of metal on metal, a bolt sliding, a latch clicking, and then—a <em>thud</em> as the wooden door flies open with a crash.</p><p>In its place stands a looming, hulking figure.</p><p>“Well now, look here,” comes Hook’s voice, emanating from his silhouette. “What a boon, to find you right where I left you, little fae.”</p><p>Her eyes are not yet adjusted to the candelight—soft as it is—flowing into the small room from the Captain’s Quarters. Casting his mockery aside she blinks, willing sight to come, before Hook brings forward a taper, illuminating his face in a golden glow.</p><p>“What, ho,” Hook croons, voice mired in condescension, “the faeling is unhappy to see me?” Any pretence at levity vanishes as Hook’s features drop into a scowl. He lunges into the room and kicks the door closed with force, the bolt and hasp rattling.</p><p>She flinches from the speed and sound of it—but not from him. No, never from him, she vows it here and now.</p><p>“Well?” the Captain snarls, leaning into her space, holding the single candlestick up to her grimy, dirty face.</p><p>She fixes him with a hard glare and says, “didn’t think you wanted me for my <em>happiness</em>. <em>Captain</em>.” She spits the words out. Get on with it, she doesn’t say. Get it over with. Go to the Deuce, she tells him with her eyes.</p><p>A muscle under Hook’s left eye, quivers. “You,” he murmurs, tracing the blunt point of his hook along her now trembling lower lip, “are so,” he shoves the curve of the metal into her mouth between her teeth, “<em>right</em>.”</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: Ohio Blue High, Principal Charlie Barber, swearing/dirty talk, I needed this today</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's coming up on end-of-year.</p><p>Reports are due, and it's just easier to stay back and get them done at work than try to finish them at home.</p><p>The school's just about cleared out by 4pm--and a certain stillness washes over Ohio Blue High around this time of the afternoon. A lovely sense of quietness.</p><p>There's no phones ringing with parents on the other line, no one calling you in to meetings at the last minute, no students knocking at the staff room door while you're shovelling food into your mouth between classes.</p><p>There's no students at all, in fact, and no other teachers scrambling for your attention.</p><p><em>Finally</em>, you can get some shit done.</p><p>It's getting dark before you look up from your computer screen and stretch. Your gaze flits over your desk, littered with student exams, practice essays, work samples from who knows when--just piles and piles of evidence of your students' achievements... and Lord knows how many empty coffee cups.</p><p>You count three: and those are just the ones that you can <em>see</em>.</p><p>That's when there's a knock at the staff room door.</p><p>Principal Barber greets you by your last name--the name your students call you--then says, "may I call you by your first name?" He casually glances over his shoulder. "I think we're safe from eavesdroppers."</p><p>You smile and lean back in your chair. "Fine by me, Charlie. How are you?"</p><p>"Me? I'm fine," he shrugs, then looks you over, landing very seriously on your face. "You're here late," he says, letting your name slip past his lips like the smoothest silk.</p><p>"Reports," you sigh, gesturing to your monitor.</p><p>"Ah," Charlie nods, "reports."</p><p>"Yep."</p><p>"Hard work," he leans off the doorframe and stalks towards your desk.</p><p>"Very--it's my first time."</p><p>"Is it?"</p><p>You think you see something glint in his eyes then. He's a hair's breadth away from standing unprofessionally close to you. A hair's breadth from being something you could make a complaint about.</p><p>As if you'd ever want to.</p><p>"Let me help you," Charlie says, dropping his laptop bag off his shoulder, bracing one hand on the back of your chair and leaning down into your space--all under the guise of seeing your screen better.</p><p>His face is so close to yours--as you both gaze at the monitor--and the scent that wafts around him... He must've reapplied his cologne before coming down to the History staff room to visit you. There's no way a scent lasts on the skin for the length of a teacher's day, no matter how expensive it is.</p><p>"Hmm. Detailed," Principal Barber murmurs quietly, quickly skimming over the comments you'd written on your students' reports. He huffs, "parents will love you."</p><p>You hum a quiet laugh in response.</p><p>"I'd tighten up this sentence. Here, about Jayden," he points, and good God, how had you never noticed the size of this man's fingers before?</p><p>"Sure," you say, clicking the cursor where it needs to go and trying to type dictation as Charlie speaks.</p><p>But it's like you've forgotten how to use a keyboard. The typos you make are atrocious.</p><p>"I promise you, I <em>can</em> type," you laugh it off, "it's just--when someone's watching over your shoulder, y'know?"</p><p>"I know," Charlie says, and you hear it in his voice: something deeper. Something darker. His breath skims over your ear and neck. "Gets you flustered," he murmurs, "hot and bothered."</p><p>You swallow thickly, your voice wavering over his name. This was heading into uncharted territory... heading someplace where one or both of you would end up making a big mistake.</p><p>"Yes?" he adds your name, his voice dripping over it like honey, like velvet.</p><p>You slowly turn your head towards him, your breathing getting more and more shallow.</p><p>Charlie murmurs into your ear, "what would you say, if I told you, that I want to pick you up, plant you on top of this desk, rip your underwear in two and rail you into next week."</p><p>You voice catches, and heat blooms, <em>everywhere</em>. "Charlie--,"</p><p>"When I see you in these skirts, your dresses, your pearl fucking earrings--God you make me want to bend you over my desk and pound a hole the size of my dick into you."</p><p>"<em>Charlie</em>--,"</p><p>"You're just so <em>pretty</em>, aren't you? Such a pretty fucking thing. Made myself cum for you so many times. Gonna send myself blind."</p><p>Suddenly you stand from your chair and turn on the spot, facing him and shutting him up with your quick movement.</p><p>He gazes at you with a fiery, stunned, eager, bated breathlessness.</p><p>"If you wanted to fuck me, Mister Barber," you murmur huskily, sliding your body closer to his, "all you had to do was ask, Charlie."</p><p>There’s a moment, a hot, dense moment, where you both silently weigh up what you’re about to do—here, on your desk, coming up on 7pm on a Wednesday.</p><p>And without another word, Charlie Barber <em>consumes</em> you.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Hiatus Thot #8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: Sackler jerking off ‘cause we love to see it; semi-public masturbation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Every night now, he’s gotta do this.</p><p>He was never fuckin’ trained for this. All the books he read, articles. The rehearsals. Nothing and no one ever said, ‘when your scene partner’s <em>fucking</em> sexy, this is how you don’t get your dick hard on stage,’ or ‘when you pull your scene partner close for the kiss, here’s some tricks so they don’t feel your fuckin’ dick through your clothes.’</p><p>There was fuckin’, none of that shit.</p><p>So now he’s here, like he has been every night since opening night, with his hand wrapped tight around his hard dick.</p><p>Sometimes he does it in his dressing room. Sometimes, like tonight, he’ll make a special trip to the bathrooms and lock himself in a cubicle, hoping to fuck his desire for you into his fist and sate himself for another night.</p><p>Praying that the slap of him fucking his own hand doesn’t ring out too loud against the tiles.</p><p>But even if it does? Fuck it. This is the only way he can manage the three kissing scenes he has with you—fucking <em>three</em> of them, motherfuck—by breathing hard through his nose as he tugs his cock quick and hard.</p><p>Keeping his groans real fuckin’ quiet so no one fuckin’ hears him.</p><p>Him, all alone, one Adam Sackler spitting into his palm and thinking about your lips and your lines and how you clutch his shoulder in the first one. And your hair and your eyes and how you slip your hands beneath his jacket in the second one. And how he cups your face in the last one, gets all up close to your body for the slowest, most tender kiss of the three. When your characters finally see each other, really <em>see</em> each other, and show it.</p><p>Fuck, when he’s pressed against you like that, his big dumb ape brain is flooded with what your pussy walls would feel like wrapped around him.</p><p>He bucks into his fist, imagining it, and smacks a flat palm to the cool tiled wall to steady himself. Your lips pressing against his, so soft, and that, fuckin’, shit that tastes like berries you put on for him. His mind goes straight there, straight to your cunt.</p><p>He bets it’s hot and wet. Tight—but not too tight. Snug. Firm, but soft around him.</p><p>“Shit,” he whispers.</p><p>With little fuckin’ ridges, maybe, when you’re really fucking excited. But warm, and slick. Fucking silky smooth and slippery… he’d completely coat his aching cock in your pussy juice. Drown it.</p><p>“Fuck,” he grunts, almost blowing it right there. It surprises him that he cussed out loud, completely on accident, pulled from him by some invisible, irresistible force. He’d already edged himself twice tonight, about to cum too soon both times, and knowing he needs to <em>thoroughly</em> wear himself out before quarter call.</p><p>He pictures your face as he starts beating his cock again. He hears your voice, how it goes sweet and playful, then husky and sexy, then loud and demanding, then soft and sorrowful. The script is so fuckin’ poetic and beautiful and fluid, it’s fucking perfect for you.</p><p>The images in his mind’s eye quickly morph and change into you on your back, you on his dressing table, you bent over his couch, you bouncing in his lap.</p><p>You gasping, you sighing, you moaning, you screaming for him.</p><p>Writhing and scratching your nails down his muscled back and his sturdy sides and pulling his hair, grabbing his ass, telling him he’s good and bad and you want it harder, more, harder.</p><p>Sackler’s cock throbs in his palm and he stifles a guttural groan. He’s close again—so fucking close—and <em>Jesus fucking Christ</em> if he could just get you out of his fuckin’ head, into his bed, cumming and crying and losing it for him.</p><p>He stops and pulls a long, slow drag up his thick cock, squeezing until the little bead of cum at the tip of his dick becomes a fat pearly glob.</p><p>He’s almost tearing up. He feels hot tears prick the corners of his eyes. He knows if he looked in the mirror right now, he’d see bloodshot eyes and a red flush on the tip of his nose and ears and tops of his cheeks.</p><p>He sniffs. He’s gotta get this fucking done, and soon.</p><p>Sackler grips his straining, veiny, turgid, angry cock tight and pumps it in his fist.</p><p>His head rolls back as his arm jerks quickly—his mouth drops open, eyes fall closed.</p><p>Sackler imagines how you’d say his name—how you’d say, “Adam,”—when you cum around his dick.</p><p>And it does him in. He spurts thick white ropes against the underside of the toilet seat, bucking into his tight fist, with twenty minutes before curtain up and the first time he kisses you tonight.</p>
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